An appraisal of the sports-business film

Thinking about the genre's on-screen tension and truthfulness

When we hear people speak about the power of attraction, it’s commonly exemplified through metaphors of love at first sight and other flowery notions. After all, most can relate in some way or another to the pull of romance. I’d like to argue however, that there’s a better metaphor out there. One that is a universal language, even more so than the language of the heart - the language of sport. Felt so fearlessly by its fans and played so passionately by its players, we are united by that tension felt on the pitches and the courts. Nevertheless, the glory, pride and sacrifice that lines the world of sports is what lines the pockets of the suits pulling the strings. It’s no secret that the average sportsperson is now your average businessperson (and your not-so-average multi-millionaire) which sometimes removes the relatability that we crave to feel. When the reality of the game robs us of that personal connection, we turn to cinema for a feel-good film navigating the trials and tribulations on the road to success (see Remember The Titans). However, since the turn of the millennium and its gradual expose of the sports industry’s corruption, the sports drama began to evolve. Plagued by the potential eroding of the all-star sportsperson, the fans have been forced to confront sports’ dependency on the dollar and in turn, so have filmmakers.

Thus, the birth of the sports-business film.

Not quite sports-drama, these films combine the modern-day commodification of the sportsperson with the age-old formula of ‘passion + struggle = success’ to make sports personal again, but this time, with an exclusive feeling of seeing what really goes on not just in the locker rooms, but in manager’s officers too.

In keeping with the philosophy of amateurism, my selection of eight films for my appraisal was based on personal experience and curiosity. Some films mentioned are my second or third watch, and the other half I’ve never seen before. To satisfy the reader’s curiosity, the films I selected were Jerry Maguire (1996), Any Given Sunday (1999), The Damned United (2009), Moneyball (2011), Draft Day (2014), Ford vs. Ferrari (2019), Hustle (2022) and Air (2023).

Seven years ago, the Guardian felt that Jerry Maguire was a film that had aged well enough to once again comment on this “hypermasculine yet introspective” film and as someone with a family that references the iconic “Show me the money!” quote at least once a month, I thought it was a great opportunity to jump into Tom Cruise’s Oscar-winning performance.

The film immediately affords us full access to the mind of Mr Maguire with a demanding internal monologue that immediately centres us in his KPI-driven world; mentions of phone call averages and mission statements almost instantaneously remove us from the world of sports and right into the heart of business. However, Jerry needs a purpose. He’s forgotten why he’s in this business, clouded by the mist of monetary gain. As he exposes himself to his colleagues as a sports agent that doesn’t really believe in the business anymore, he becomes a “loser”, as his soon-to-be ex-wife so subtly mentions. Maguire has a lot of work to do in order to become the advocate for “prioritising people over big business” - but he’s sacrificed his status and for that, we reward him with sympathy. As he has his clients snatched away from him, he begins to build a friendship steeped in life lessons and not-so-witty wisdoms with Rod Tidwell, played by Cuba Gooding Jr.

Towards the end of the film’s first hour, it becomes apparent that through the hands dealt to him, Rod is unhappy with the way sports management works. He’s a Black football player in a time when his talent is hailed but his image is not and as a result, he’s initially thrown to the side by Maguire. Only through Rod’s musings on his “shelf life” as an expiring sportsman and his overly-emphatic focus on his Holy Trinity of “loyalty, unity and money” does the human side of Maguire emerge. Notably however, Maguire’s not very good at being human. His first marriage fails (with the viewer relieved) and his second marriage is so quick that it almost instantly comes undone. His friendship with Rod keeps him orbiting around the sports industry where he feels most comfortable, but there is no room for the all-important growth; constantly alluded to by the intermittent clips of fictional legend Dicky Fox, Maguire’s old mentor.

As we approach the climax of Rod’s final match of the film, we see a clip of Fox mentioning the “cynical world” of the sports industry and how it is a “business of tough competitors”; succinctly framing the dilemma Rod faces: the business is not made to value a sportsman like him. During a moment of particular anxiety during the game, Rod’s wife says to Maguire, “We determine our worth”. With this message, the film begins to come to a close. Following a successful final game, Rod is swarmed by media attention and the cheers of fans: a just reward after the industry’s unfair exclusion of him for so long, denying him his fame and fortunes in the process. To the viewer’s delight, Rod revels in the glory: “Let me enjoy this for a second,” he says with a smile.

Of course, Jerry Maguire is a predictable film at its core, but so is every sports film. At the end of my first watch, the film’s defining message was aptly embodied by another football player looking on at Rod and Maguire embracing each other and asking his agent, “Why don’t we have that kind of relationship?” with a wistfulness and a jealousy that confirms for us that yes, indeed: Maguire has achieved what his mission statement set out to accomplish. He’s now an honest sports agent working against the odds of the corrupt sports industry.

Jerry Maguire was a wildly iconic film in 1996, closely followed by Any Given Sunday three years later; starring Al Pacino, Cameron Diaz and Jamie Foxx. This is one of the longest films out of my selection and unfortunately at times, it felt like it. Bringing focus to the film’s opening, we are instantly greeted by what Roger Ebert calls Oliver Stone’s “lack of substantial, strategic, comprehensible sports action footage.” A harsh critique, but to my amateur eye focused solely on the sports-business micro-genre? I felt that the irregular skips and cuts laid over the ever-confusing American football game helped to bring the player’s experience and the rawness of the sport to the forefront of the viewing experience. For the first ten minutes, I was worried I had picked poorly and Any Given Sunday was not about business at all. Enter Cameron Diaz playing Christina Pagniacci, owner and manager of the Miami Sharks, watching said match whilst on a blocky 90s phone to an unidentified businessman talking about the search for “better players” whilst in the luxurious setting of a bar, far removed from head coach Tony D’Amato’s (Al Pacino) football field.

One praise Ebert has of Stone is regarding the film’s effective dialogue, and I concur. Twenty minutes in and Pagniacci has already framed the dire devaluing of sports for the sake of money: the Miami Sharks need to get to the playoffs for what she calls “TV money”. Whilst on the field however, D’Amato tells his players to “enjoy it - that’s what you’re here for.” The clash between Pagniacci’s business strategies and D’Amato’s raw approach to sports coaching is clear, and further exemplified by Foxx’s Willie Beamen, who is labelled a Franchise Player by a sports journalist. Beamen is a great player but the Sharks already have a great player: Cap, played by Dennis Quaid. Beamen’s rise and Cap’s simultaneous decline are an ode to the power (and destruction) of optics. Because of Pagniacci’s desire to milk Beamen’s image for every dollar its worth, the team dynamics suffer and Beamen quickly realises that “football is a corporation,” and “it’s bullshit, all about the money;” using what he calls the “Black stars” of the sport to manufacture success.

Beamen’s awareness of his place not just on the field, but in the franchise, brings the viewer clarity on how important ownership can be in the sports industry. In an interview, he comments on this: “Seventy percent of the players on that field are African-American and you know how many Black owners there are? Zero.” Not only do Pagniacci’s efforts to strive economically bring the team’s morale down but they compromise the integrity of the sport. One player named Shark undergoes treatment for a serious injury on the field and is forced to consider playing in poor health for the sake of his salary to sustain his four children; a damning comment on the state of the sports industry in so many ways.

First, Shark’s sporting prowess does not equate to the same financial security that Cap’s does; exposing the racial pay gap that is fed by Pagniacci’s PR tactics. Second, it opens up a larger conversation about performance on the field. In an era of statistics where a player’s efficiency and success determine their value, how can accurate, fair and balanced assessments of a team be made when veteran players have to take necessary risks? Finally, we note how deep the industry’s corruption is: the doctor lets him play, the coach doesn’t prevent him and the owner doesn’t care. The passion that fans have for the sport is not shared by these characters: it is replaced by passion for a reckless win.

In the last thirty minutes of the film, Ebert’s judgements on editing started to ring true, as well as his claim that the film could well have been shorter. We get a brief sense that justice may be served to Pagniacci for her irresponsible management, only for her lesson to somehow be instantly learned at a press conference during the film’s final scene.

Cold, calculated and covert, Any Given Sunday shares The Damned United’s painfully honest exposure of how business comes before the ball; how a manager’s ambition comes before a player’s. I was surprised to learn that David Peace’s book on which the film was based was critiqued as much more introspective and darker, especially considering how effective the pale, washed-out colour grading of the scenes was in welding the sorry state of sport with manager Brian Clough’s failures.

Clough, played by Michael Sheen, opens the role with a cockiness that is reminiscent of Cruise’s Jerry Maguire as he states emphatically, “I’m Brian Clough.” The film’s opening on-screen narration is equally emphatic in its suggestion of football as integral to the British public; describing the country as a “nation in trauma” following Leeds United’s loss at the FA Cup. Amongst the dullness and dryness of the chats between chairman Sam, manager Brian and coach Peter Taylor is a distinct lack of the sports action that usually defines a film in this genre. The extent of the action we get is Stephen Graham attacking players on the field, and even that is less about football, but more about corrupt tactics embedded in the pitch.

With a lack of focus on individual players, the film’s driving force immediately snaps to Brian himself. Whether standing in a blaring red tracksuit against the drab English clouds or with his face and slicked-back hair enlarged on a Yorkshire TV channel, his ego dominates the film. With his personal worth diminished by Don Revie, ex-manager of Leeds United, he diminishes the value of his team by thinking of them in terms of resources: trading them in deals that we rarely see the effects of on the pitch. It’s interesting how Brian’s desire to win and climb up the league table matches Pagniacci’s passion in Any Given Sunday, but Brian is willing to sacrifice personal financial gain for the pursuit of a legendary reputation by any means necessary.

Clough’s gradual detachment from the love of the game is cleverly symbolised by a fantastic scene of him in his office under the stands as a particularly crucial game ensues. The shadows of the fans standing up when there’s been a goal paired with the sharp interruptions of applause and cheers against Clough’s panic-stricken face showcase how the meaning of a win on the pitch has changed for him: a loss is a personal hit to his dignity, one that he can’t afford after Revie’s slight.

The film emphasises at every turn how the sport truly is ‘damned’; a single player’s suspension has Brian worried about future games which highlights a lack of team dynamics, Leeds United’s success under Revie despite their dirty tactics indicates the game’s fall into disrepute and Brian’s argument with Derby County’s chairman over team expenditure shows how club management is significantly poor. Above all however, The Damned United most successfully portrays the curse of football’s merger with big business via Brian’s fallout with long-term partner Peter, played by Timothy Spall.

Peter and Brian’s split dominates the final third of the film, with a heart-warming reunion offered by Peter only on account of Brian’s apology. Author David Peace mentions how he felt “Clough stepped straight out of Shakespeare” and for the most part, I agree. A man stricken by the illness of hubris and defined by a historically dramatic live TV interview, he was on track for the ultimate tragedy - death by public opinion. It would have been a fitting punishment for his crime of ignoring the fiery passion at the core of English football in favour of his own “mad ambition” to be in what he called “not the top ten, but the top one.”

This desperate ambition for perfection is almost the same blight that befalls Moneyball’s Billy Beane, played by Brad Pitt, the manager of the Oakland A’s baseball team. A recurring motif throughout most films in the selection is the presence of a sporting legend in the opening of the film: Dicky Fox in Jerry Maguire, Vince Lombardi in Any Given Sunday, and Thom Brennaman in Moneyball. This iconic introduction is laced with patriotic moments from baseball over the years in Oakland, feeding the nostalgia felt worldwide for American sports culture; only for it to be completely overshadowed by the decision to have the financial valuations for the Oakland A’s and the Yankees come on-screen before their team titles. Such a small detail that cements Moneyball as a sports-business film from the first minute.

There is a fantastic sense of community in Moneyball; the regular use of radio commentary and phone-ins from Oakland locals help to redefine what ownership looks like in this micro-genre. The absence of an overbearing owner like Molina in Draft Day, Sam Longson in The Damned United or Vince Merrick in Hustle aids the rehabilitation of baseball’s image as the community feel a deep connection with their players and thus, entitlement to comment on any business decisions ensues. One snippet of a phone-in claims the Yankees are “pilfering our players” which is later concurred by Beane himself: he says he and his scouts are “playing an unfair game” after having been “gutted” by the Yankees snatching their best players. Clearly, there is tension between Beane and his head scout Grady Fuson as he argues Beane is responsible for the “decimation of the organisation” by implementing Bill James’s baseball mathematics with the help of Yale-graduate Peter Brand, played by Jonah Hill. Brand is a catalyst for change at the Oakland A’s with his renewing strategy of “not buying players, but buying runs” that relies on valuing individual players for their performance capabilities as opposed to their optics; quite the opposite of Pagniacci’s approach with Willie Beamen in Any Given Sunday.

One of my favourite comparisons with these films is the way they present the mystical board of player names that seems to feature in almost every sports-business film. We see it in Hustle, Draft Day, Any Given Sunday, Air and of course, Moneyball. It seems to always be a symbol of the individual player being reduced to almost nothing, but in this film, Beane adds the names of three unknown players to the board for the scouts to consider only to be met with dissatisfied groans across the table. Usually in a sports-business film, the plot’s fixation on statistics is a move away from appreciation of the sport, of the player, of a team dynamic. Somehow, Moneyball repurposes the art of statistics and brings it back to life. Through Brand and James’ codes and formulas, players like Scott Hatteberg, played by Chris Pratt, are given a chance to shine through the restrictive criteria of an all-star baseball player imposed by the business. As Brand says, the current business model “undervalues” players like Hatteberg because to accept them would be subversive.

Such subversion is not readily accepted by the community of Oakland or other sports commentators. Another phone-in snippet comments, “This is not a sport about statistics, this is about people.” Usually, we find ourselves agreeing yes, the sport is about people who shouldn’t be reduced to numbers. But these particular numbers are giving older players new chances and renewing prospects in the process. These particular numbers are reminding Beane that sports is all about potential, performance and practice - so he gives it a chance.

Of course, there are elements of the business that cannot be broken away from and we find ourselves watching the transfer deadline for the end of the season unfold through a series of phone calls from Beane’s office. Once again however, Beane manipulates the transfer of players in ways previously unused: he stakes his own money on a transfer for a player to sweeten the deal with another owner. Not only is this one of the most significant sacrifices seen in these films, but is also a testament to the belief that Beane had in the redefinition of the business. He truly believed that there was changed to be made in baseball’s landscape and as he says to Brand, the goal is “to change the game”; a clever callback to Fuson’s words earlier in the film during an interview criticising Brand and Beane, saying that “they thought they could change the game, even reinvent the game.” As revealed at the end of the film, they do indeed succeed in their innovation.

John Henry, owner of the Boston Red Sox, enlightens Beane with the reassurance that he did the right thing at the Oakland A’s, even if (as Brad Pitt says) he felt “devalued by the sport”. He says, “Money buys the disregard of what baseball likes.” He goes on to say that any change to the game threatens people: it threatens “the way that they do things, their livelihoods, their jobs, the way of doing business.” Going from hearing Henry say this, straight into watching Draft Day felt like the perfect combination; words like these would have been well-received by Sonny Weaver Jr., played by Kevin Costner, the manager of the Cleveland Browns.

Focused on the NFL Draft, the film opens with a 12 hour countdown to the draft deadline; immediately instilling a sense of urgency reserved only for the most tense of business deals. Not even ten minutes into the film and the management of the Seattle Seahawks are trading players with no mention of the individual other than their surnames. Ten minutes later and we see Vontae Mack, played by Chadwick Boseman, aiming to gauge whether Sonny will be drafting him for the Browns later that day. He values himself highly: “The best thing for this team, for this season, is me.” Sonny isn’t too convinced just yet but seems to be keeping his cards close to his chest; a recurring theme throughout the film. During this conversation and several other calls during the film, Rajiv Joseph and Scott Rothman (the film’s writers and producers) chose to use incredibly memorable split-screen styling with pop-out elements, ramping up the stakes with every shot. On their decision, Joseph says, the movie is “about character and identity” and “compressing the action as much as possible…capturing all the wheeling and dealing of the draft.”

As it turns out, Sonny is incredibly emphatic about the significance that a player’s character holds. As he clashes with Coach Penn over the trading of their best players over a three-season period, he tries to see through an amazingly lucrative deal in between the 10-minute pick deadlines during the draft. Where our usual sports-business film team managers would be looking at statistics or ability however, Sonny looks at who the player is. He chooses against a selection of the NFL #1 pick, Bo Callahan, solely because two inconclusive incidents have given him uncertainty about Bo’s integrity. Meanwhile, Vontae’s closeness with his family, his honesty and his expertise on the field lead Sonny to go with him for the final draft decision. During his 12-hour thought process, he sits with his team and plays back individual plays on the football field, watching for every detail. This is the analysis Moneyball promotes: characterising a player by what they actually do, not what they could do. Scott Rothman acknowledged the film industry’s lumping in of Draft Day with films like Moneyball, but says he “always saw the film as the exact opposite of Moneyball.” The pausing, the playing, the rewinding of game footage provides Sonny with the confirmation he needs; that Vontae Mack is a good person, not just a good player; whereas all Billy Beane needs to see is the number of runs a player makes or the amount they “get on-base” - he doesn’t even need to know their name.

As the draft deadline passes, one sports commentator succinctly comments on Sonny’s decision-making: “He took a chance and went with his gut,” a sentiment that has not been echoed greatly throughout this selection of films. Draft Day takes one of the most serious scenarios of the sports industry and softens it with Sonny’s empathy, even in the face of great adversity. The film’s tight timescale helps you forget that there is more than just a team at stake here, there is a company with employees and their jobs on the line with every decision Sonny makes as manager. Although far apart in their philosophies, this is also an identifiable thread of the plot in Ford vs. Ferrari, where we are made aware from the title alone that the sport of racing is not only dominated by, but made possible by these two companies. Matt Damon and Christian Bale play Carroll Shelby and Ken Miles in what was a very enjoyable watch, documenting the struggle between the “managers and bureaucrats” of Ford against Shelby and Miles. Between the vocabulary of sponsorships, the scouts and agents at the track, and the automobile expertise on show, this is a film that asserts the hold business has on sport: without Ford’s engineering, there is no car for Miles to race in. Without Ford, Miles is not a sportsman.

As we see in a brief boardroom scene between Ford’s marketing team and Henry Ford II played by Tracy Letts, the company is in dire need of a racing angle on their marketing to help them sell the way they used to. The business needs the sport, but the sport doesn’t really exist without the business: the interdependency of the industry is truly exposed. When Shelby is recruited to help Ford win Le Mans, he says, “Money can’t buy speed,” a fact proven true by Miles’ capacity to push Ford’s car to its limits. No one drives like him, yet Ford’s prioritisation of optics pushes Miles out of the limelight at Le Mans; a similar business move to Pagniacci’s pushing of Beamen onto the pitch in Any Given Sunday. The sportsman’s value is diminished by the businessman’s interests and talent becomes undervalued.

When the Le Mans race actually begins, we hear Miles referred to as “Shelby American’s Miles”, indicating that the company he’s driving for matters more than the his own participation in the race. Earlier on, we hear commentators call a close finish between “the Corvette and the Cobra” during the Daytona race, with no attention paid to the drivers. Finally, towards the end of Le Mans, a Ford executive wants to undermine Miles’s moment in the spotlight by demanding that all three Ford cars cross the finish line simultaneously. We don’t know who the drivers of the other cars are (it’s not mentioned more than once in passing), we just know that they’re all Henry Ford’s. The photograph of Ford’s success is the only thing at stake for him, whereas a potential career, a life-changing salary and the glory he has always wanted is at stake for Miles. Of course, there is also the clear truth of Ford’s business practices compromising the integrity of the sport. Thankfully, the crowd’s final cheers are for Miles, not Ford; bringing a tiny sliver of glory home for the Englishman.

Ford vs. Ferrari is the only film in this selection that ends sadly, with Miles passing away in a test drive gone awry. There is something poetic about his death; dying in the machine designed to bring him the glory he deserved, but didn’t get. The film is a nod to the persistence of the amateur racer and the great obstacles presented to them in the form of big business. Juancho Hernangomez’s character of Bo Cruz in Hustle faces similar obstacles, if not the same. His talent is undeniable, but he has to fit into the business to be considered as a serious player. When Stanley Sugerman, assistant coach of the Philadelphia 76ers (played by Adam Sandler) finds Bo, his purpose is fulfilled - he has found that special individual. Unfortunately, Sugerman’s expertise is denied by owner Vince Merrick, played by Ben Foster. He downplays Sugerman’s comments, especially when they don’t fit his perception of what makes an all-star NBA player. Nevertheless, Sugerman doesn’t let business ruin his passion: he loves the sport and he believes in Bo - so much so, that he quits the 76ers and funds Bo’s leap into the NBA himself.

As Sugerman disconnects from the intricate corporation, he finds himself enjoying his time as Bo’s coach and takes the time to advise him on how best to shine in such an overly-saturated industry: “Obsession will beat talent every time.” Sugerman has a point: there are other amazing grassroots players like Bo Cruz but only through Sugerman’s obsession with “knowing every great player” does he makes his way to the United States. They both know how life-changing a chance in this business would be for Bo, and so Sugerman removes the corporate pain so Cruz can continue. Although he is solely responsible for giving Bo the opportunity, Sugerman doesn’t assume any nasty ownership of Bo, unlike Ford’s ownership (and therefore control) of Miles in Ford vs. Ferrari or Brian Clough’s mistreatment of his Derby County players in The Damned United. Driven by persistence and passion to get this talented kid into the NBA, Sugerman’s efforts inadvertently make a dent in the expectations behind the traditional route into professional basketball. All that matters in the game is your pride and your potential: very similar to Brand and Beane’s mentality in Moneyball.

There’s a fantastic scene in Hustle where Sugerman’s daughter suggests live-streaming Bo’s talent in order to utilise the popularity the NBA is steeped in and repurpose it to better Bo’s optics; all in his comfort zone of the community court, rather than under the harsh lights and unnerving gaze of the executives. Taylor Materne, screenwriter of the film, mentions how important the quality of the basketball was to the movie, which is evident through the casting of several real-life basketball players and legends. During an influx of social attention, Sugerman reminds Bo why they’re here: “We’re doing this because no-one else is doing this,” a clear indication of how transformative their approach to major league basketball is. It is no secret that a player on the court is managed and manipulated by several even bigger players behind office doors; shown overtly in the opening montage of Air, a film about the merger between Michael Jordan’s undeniable talent and the dying Nike Basketball division.

We are introduced to Sonny Vaccaro, played by Matt Damon, who scouts for the next best thing in basketball at high schools across America - with little to no success. Historically, Nike didn’t really care for business deals with the Black player and as a result, saw negative numbers on their balance sheets. During the forever-iconic scene with the all-important board of names, Rob Strasser (played by Jason Bateman) tries to tempt the others on the board with lower-pick players that Nike can market themselves to in order to get back on top of sales. Vaccaro is undeniably bored by the inane inputs from the other executives: “he’s a good player”, “he’s a great pick” and “I like the way he plays” just don’t cut it for him. He claims they have “no insight” and don’t care about the players at all; blaming a lack of attention towards the player’s personalities for Nike’s inability to appeal to players. There’s a memorable moment with Vaccaro and a store clerk who knows infinitely more than the suits in the office, and the viewer gets a clear insight into how flawed the business is due to its poor integration with the sport.

As the film progresses, it becomes clear that Nike’s only chance to get back into the business is to partner with Michael Jordan: an endeavour obvious to Vaccaro, tentative to Strasser and almost impossible to Nike founder Phil Knight, played by Ben Affleck. Nevertheless, Vaccaro’s obsession with Jordan is contagious, similar to Sonny Weaver Jr.’s pull towards Vontae Mack in Draft Day or Tony D’Amato’s reliance on Cap in Any Given Sunday. The individual player is their source of revenue and with the help of Howard White, played by Chris Tucker, they embark on their mission. Vaccaro’s claim that he hasn’t “had a feeling like this in 20 years” shows how there is still passion for the sport buried in the business, but as we’ve seen time and time again with this selection, passion is easily dismissed for the pursuit of almost anything else.

They decide to create the Air Jordan shoe specifically for Jordan, bringing “subversion and individualism” back onto the court, encouraged by Vaccaro’s belief that the “shoe is just a shoe until somebody steps into it.” This asserts the player’s unique value much more than competitor Converse does; claiming that Jordan will be “mentioned in the same sentence” as other greats. Not only does this minimise his impact as a future legend, but only serves to promote the brand - incredibly similar to the photo finish debacle in Ford vs. Ferrari. Nevertheless, it is evident that Nike still wish to commercialise Jordan’s greatness. Viola Davis plays Jordan’s mother, who lets the deal go ahead with the caveat that Jordan will receive a percentage of all profits from the shoe. To her dismay, Vaccaro must inform her that unfortunately, “that’s not how the business works.” She calmly responds by reminding Vaccaro that sometimes, the business needs to change. Based on a true story, Jordan’s mother successfully paved the way for a redefinition of athletics marketing, facilitated by Strasser, Knight, White and Vaccaro.

Nearly twenty hours of sports-business films later, I don’t necessarily feel like an expert on the micro-genre but I certainly feel enlightened. Not only do we truly “venerate capitalists” in the world of sports, but the entire notion is driven by money. We don’t get our winning moments, our crushing defeats or our nail-biting anticipation without the negotiations that get our favourite players on the courts and fields we love to watch. In terms of an appraisal, the sports-business film most certainly deserves its promotion. With Moneyball as its scapegoat and hidden gems like Draft Day hidden in the stands, these films are a masterclass in tension that translates so successfully on-screen for anyone that’s dreamed of success.

For individual ratings of each film, you can find my reviews on my Letterboxd here.